


Vertigo

by Angelwithanapplepie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, FTM, Flashbacks, M/M, More tags to be added, Slow Burn, Torture, Trans, Trans Character, Transgender, Transphobia, body transformation, castiel you idiot, gender transition, season 4, transphobic language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:50:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelwithanapplepie/pseuds/Angelwithanapplepie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This isn’t- it’s not- I don’t have any scars anymore and now I- well,” Dean sighs, trying to phrase it in a way that makes sense.  Instead, he says: “Bobby, I have a dick.”<br/>OR<br/>When Dean gets brought back, there's been some slight modifications done and whoever's responsible is going to have hell to pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lazarus Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I'm just going to start this off by saying that I'm trans*. I know, for the most, part, what I'm talking about. However, if anything I do seems problematic please comment so that I can fix it or at least try to.

Act I

When Dean comes to six feet under in a pine box, the only thing he’s capable of thinking of is how delicious air is. He lays still for what feels like an eternity, gasping like a fish out of water. He can still remember Hell, flashes of blades reflecting light, blood dripping down his face and into his mouth.

_This must be one of Alistair’s new tricks_ , he thinks. _Making me feel free only to be dragged back down again_. Still, Dean can’t help but feel a little hopeful, even after decades of having it torn away from him.

He flicks on the lighter he pulls from his back pocket, revealing wooden planks all around.

“Help!” there’s no one around to hear him but he pleads anyway in his unused and weak voice. “Help! Help!”

He shoves at the planks, pulling at them until they cave in. Once again his air is stolen from him but he fights against the falling dirt until he surfaces, and then sprawls against the ground in a boneless heap. For a moment, no more than a few seconds, he entertains the thought of being free. Free from Alistair, free from Hell, from himself, all of it. And then he sees the trees. All around his makeshift grave is a perfect circle of dead trees, blasted backwards with him as the epicenter.

 

Dean’s body feels _weird_. Of course he’s never been entirely comfortable with it, never felt at home, but this is different. He keeps tripping because he can’t figure out where his feet are going to land, his arms feels weird, and most importantly there’s a strange feeling between his legs. It’s almost like he’s turned on, with a sort of throbbing sensitiveness, but it’s _different_. He doesn’t let himself dwell on it; finding Sam is his first priority. He’s decided that this isn’t one of Alistair’s tricks, but there’s still something undeniably suspicious this.  
Only a shit ton of mojo could have blasted those trees back.

When he finds an abandoned gas station he doesn’t hesitate for more than a few seconds to break in. Dean is thirsty and hungry and desperate. There’s a newspaper stack and he grabs one: the date reads Thursday, September 18th.

Four months. That’s how long he was in hell. A measly few months. It felt like an eternity to him, like decades.

 

He washes his face in a dingy little sink and examines himself in the mirror. Once again, he feels _different_. But the difference must be so subtle that he can’t see it. Cautiously, he lifts his shirt a little. His skin is smooth and unblemished other than his freckles where it should be torn into ribbons by hellhound teeth. When he checks his hands every single old hunting scar has vanished. Then, fueled by an unexpected urge he lifts the sleeve on his left shoulder, hissing slightly at the sting. There’s a red handprint, like he’s been branded. The skin is irritated and pink around it.

_Some bastard rode me out of there_ , he thinks. _It’s never easy, is it?_

 

After stealing his fair share of candy bars, Slim Jims, and water bottles (along with the latest edition of Busty Asian Beauties, because c’mon, who would resist that?), Dean pops open the register and raids it.

The TV next to him turns on and plays static, hissing. He shuts it off quickly, hoping with all his heart that maybe he just bumped into it and accidentally touched a button that turned it on.

The radio on his other side turns on.

Not willing to risk anything because _goddammit I just got out of Hell_ , he finds a salt carton and starts pouring it onto the windowsill.

A low hum suddenly fills his ear canals, pitch rising with such speed and power that Dean finds himself on the floor, dodging glass falling from the windowsills. He feels like somebody has wrenched open the sides of his head and started screaming at him with no words, an endless screeching monotone. He feels like he’s drowning in it, like he’s resonating, like he’s-

And then it stops.

Silence fills the hot, humid air, and Dean picks himself off of the floor and looks for the nearest phone.

 

When Sam doesn’t answer and Bobby won’t talk to him he hotwires the old car by the gas station and starts driving.

Halfway to Bobby’s house, Dean pulls over to the side of the road to pee. He finds some foliage to squat behind and pulls down his pants.  
He almost faints when he looks in between his legs.

 

Once Dean gets back in the car he speeds the rest of the way.

 

Bobby answers the door, suspicious and apprehensive, eyes flicking up and down his body several times before resting in the middle of his chest. He’s pale and his eyes are a little redder than they should be. He seems _smaller_ than Dean remembers but maybe it’s just that it’s been awhile.

“Surprise,” Dean says, triumphant but still cautious. Alistair could be behind all of this, creating an illusion so complex that Dean would know freedom before it was taken away again.

“I- I don’t…” Bobby trails off, starting to open the door a little more but keeping part of his body concealed.

“Yea, me neither,” Dean says and steps past the threshold when Bobby steps back. “But here I am.”

Bobby attacks with ferocity, slashing at his chest with a knife that Dean somehow manages to twist out of the way only for the older man to backhand him.

“Bobby, it’s me!” he cries out.

“My ass!” Bobby growls with such rage in his voice that Dean grabs at a nearby chair to put in between them, to hold the anger at bay.

“Whoa, whoa, wait!” he yells, trying to keep Bobby’s attention. “Your name is Robert Steven Singer, you became a hunter after your wife got possessed and…” Dean stops for a breath. “You’re about the closest thing I have to a father. It’s me.”

Bobby seems to deflate a little, puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, and slashes at him once again. Dean manages to block and get the knife away.

“I am _not_ a shapeshifter!”

“Then you’re a Revenant!”

Dean shoves Bobby away as he gets close and holds the knife to his bared forearm with a grimace. His skin is finally smooth and rid of scars and now he’s about to make a new one.

“If I was either, could I do this- with a silver knife?” he slices close to the elbow and clenches a little to feel the sting and see the blood, to feel _alive_.

“ _Dean_?” Bobby’s voice is so hopeful and broken that Dean feels a tug in his gut, a tug of guilt. He smiles softly at the hunter.

“That's what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Bobby’s face morphs into relief and he pulls Dean in for a tight hug that Dean returns, feeling the warmth of the other man.

“It’s…” Bobby’s voice is heavy with emotion, “It’s good to see you, boy.”

“Yeah, you too,” Dean smiles. Bobby returns the gesture, then frowns again.

“But- how did you bust out?”

“I don’t know, I just, uh, I woke up in a pine bo-”

Bobby splashes water on Dean’s face.

“I’m not a demon either, you know,” he sputters.

“Sorry. Can’t be too careful.”

 

They walk into the kitchen while Dean dries his face off. Bobby stops and turns to him.

“Dean, your chest was ribbons, your insides were slop. You’ve been buried for _four months_. Even if you did just slip out and back into-”

“I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“This isn’t- it’s not- I don’t have any scars anymore and now I- well,” Dean sighs, trying to phrase it in a way that makes sense. Instead, he says “Bobby, I have a dick.”

Bobby falls silent, blinking rapidly and inhaling through his nose.

“You have- you mean you don’t have a- you know- anymore?” he stumbles.

“No more mangina, a real, authentic, uncut dick.”

“I did _not_ need to know _that_ , boy,” Bobby sputters, face reddening.

“Well, it was a nice gift from whatever asshole rode me outta there,” Dean says, smirking and shifting his legs. He hasn’t quite figured out which side his dick is supposed to be on so he just put in the middle, which is turning out to be a terrible mistake.

It doesn’t feel like a gift, though. He feels almost _violated_. Sure, it’s something he would jump to have in a heartbeat but not like this, never like this. He hates the idea of waking up in a different body, indebted to whatever asshole decided they could do this to him. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and one that Dean hesitates to linger on for more than a few seconds.

“What do you remember?”

Dean remembers everything. The hounds, the chains, the knives, the brands, the whips, ropes, blood dripping from his empty eye sockets, a scalpel in his hand, a voice whispering _oh, Dean, you’ve done so well, you’ve made me so happy_ , he remembers-

“Not much. There were the hellhounds and then- lights out. I woke up six feet under and that was that. I tried to call Sam but his number wasn’t working,” his stomach drops a little. “He’s not- uh- not-”

“Oh, he’s alive,” Bobby says, and then mutters, “as far as I know.”

“As far as you know?” Bobby sighs and scratches at his beard while he sits down in one of his kitchen chairs.

“Haven’t talked to him in months.”

“You’re kidding, you just let him go off all by his lonesome?” Dean is incredulous.

“He was dead set on it boy, nothing I could do about it. I tried looking for him, but- well these last months haven’t been exactly easy, you know. We _buried_ you, Dean. I wanted you salted and burned but Sam wasn’t having any of it- said you’d need a body when he got you back.”

“Got me back? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Bobby frowned and scratched at his beard again.

“He was real quiet when he took off. Never returned my calls. I tried to track him down but he was making sure I couldn’t catch his trail.” Dean’s stomach drops to his feet while his heart jumps in his throat. All he can think of is Sam lying on a bed, pale and stiff. What had Sam said to him after they’d killed the Yellow-Eyed Demon? _Don’t you think I’d do the same for you?_ Goosebumps break out on Dean’s arms.

“Dammit, Sammy,” he whispers.

“What?” Bobby says, confused.

“Oh, he got me home okay. But whatever he did, it’s _bad_ mojo. Right by my grave, the trees were on the ground like a nuke went off. And when I was at this fill-up joint, there was this- this _presence_.” Dean doesn’t know what else to call it. “And there was this, too,” he pulls off his jacket and then yanks up his sleeve to expose the brand on his shoulder. “It’s like some demon yanked me out, or rode me out.”

“No demon with half a brain would do something like that. And even if they did, why would they make you- change your- uh,” Bobby stumbles again and turns red.

“Maybe they were holding up their end of a bargain?” Dean suggests. Realization dawns in Bobby’s eyes.

“You think Sam made a deal.” Dean sighs and puts his jacket back on.

“It’s what I would have done.”

 

Dean finds Sam with a bare amount of effort (the damn kid is _still_ using Wedge Antilles as his alias, the nerd). His brother is in Pontiac, Illinois, only a few scant miles from where he popped up. Dean and Bobby track him down to a hotel that looks like home; bad wallpaper, staff bordering on sociopathic, and a strange smell that’s not entirely unpleasant but still makes Dean wrinkle his nose.

A woman, maybe in her late 20s, opens the door wearing nothing but a tank top and her panties. She looks at them for a moment and then raises an eyebrow in expectation.

“So, where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Dean asks, wanting to know where Sam is more than he wants to know what she’s looking for.

“The pizza,” she snips, sneering a little, "It takes two guys to deliver?” Dean’s throat tightens and he realizes that he’s going to have to find his brother again.

“I think we’ve got the wrong room.”

And then Sam steps into the light, grim with brows furrowed while he looks at the woman. He starts to ask a question and then looks up, eyes landing on Dean, and then darting to Bobby, and then back to Dean to rest. He swallows a total of three times.

“Hiya Sammy,” Dean croaks quietly. He steps into the room, once again with caution because he doesn’t have any clue what to expect from this darker, angrier version of his brother. He’s glad for it because not a moment later Sam is lunging toward him, knife pulled from his belt and aimed to kill. Dean dodges and Bobby grabs his younger brother while the woman shrieks.

“Who are you?” Sam bellows, infuriating Dean.

“Like you didn’t do this?!” he hisses.

“Do what?!” Sam snaps back.

“It’s him!” Bobby interjects, his voice taking a tone of authority. “It’s him. I’ve been through this already. It’s _really_ him.” Sam stops struggling immediately, jaw slack as he stares at Dean.

“I know,” Dean teases, “I look fantastic, huh?”

Sam pulls him into a desperate hug, sobs concealed in the shake of their shoulders. Sam pushes Dean back to arm’s length, eyes flicking down his body and then resting on his eyes again.

“So, are you two- like- together?” the woman questions and Sam snorts.

 

After the woman has left, and Dean is _mostly_ done making lewd jokes, Sam sits down on his bed at stares at Dean in wonder. When Dean snaps at him, Sam denies him. Dean wants to tear his hair out, pound his fist into a wall.

“I didn’t want to be saved like this!” he yells, grabs Sam by the front of his shirt. “There’s no other way this could have gone down. Now, tell the truth!”

“I tried _everything_. That’s the truth,” Sam hollers, smacking Dean’s hands away. “So I’m sorry it wasn’t me, alright? Dean, I’m sorry.” And Dean relents, but the question remains heavy in his mind.

 

_If Sam didn’t pull me out, what did?_

Act II 

Sam explains what he did during Dean's long nap. Mostly he was trying for the revenge route, hunting down Lilith. He apologizes to Bobby for not calling, but Dean notes that Sam’s voice wavers in it. The demons he was following left a trail that led to Pontiac right when Dean came to. Dean voices the obvious concern of a connection between the two.

“How you feelin’, anyway?” Bobby questions. Dean blinks a few times.

“I’m a little hungry.”  
“No, I mean, do you feel like yourself?,” Bobby presses. “Anything strange, or _different_?” Dean sends Bobby a warning glance. Dean doesn’t have the mental capacity to talk about _that_ right now. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

“I feel fine.”

Bobby sighs while Sam intones his concerns on their lack of information about anything, really. Bobby cuts in once again, this time to refer a psychic only a few hours away. They call her and warn her that they're coming- Dean hears her laugh on the other end of the line when Sam says it just like that- and then Dean gets up to leave.

‘Wait,” Sam interjects, “you probably want this back.” It’s the amulet Sam gave to Dean when they were little. Dean’s heart swells and for a moment everything feels like it’s back to normal, and then-

“Hey, Dean, what was it like?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says reflexively, “I- I must have blacked out. Don’t remember a damn thing.” Sam nods, satisfied, and Dean lets out a mental sigh.

Dean heads to the bathroom just before they leave. He does his business and washes his hands, stares into the mirror. While most of his blemishes are absent, his freckles were stubborn enough to stay, of course. He runs a hand over his face and leans forward, staring at his reflection.

_Darkness, but not just darkness, nothingness as well, And in the nothingness was pain, agony, fingernails ripped up and limbs twisting, the crack of bones beneath his powerful grip and the answering crack of his teeth as he tore into the meat-_

Dean turns away from his face and walks to the Impala quickly.

After ripping the ipod jack ( _what the hell, Sam?_ ) out of the dash, Dean and Sam head to the psychic with Dean behind the wheel. It feels good to have the wheel in his hands, to feel the control it gives. He’s missed this car more than he thought.

Sam tells him that Lilith couldn’t kill him, for whatever reason. Ruby is dead, or worse. He says he’s avoided using his powers, but there’s a waver in his voice yet again. Dean knows there’s something else there, just beneath the surface, but he doesn’t want to push. He’s only just gotten back from Hell and he really doesn’t have the strength to argue with his brother right now.

Pamela Barnes’ house is fairly nondescript, but she’s anything but. Her smile is wild and ferocious and she welcomes them into her home with hospitality bordering on aggressive. And maybe Dean flirts a little, because it’s been awhile, and hey, he just got out of hell.

“Out of the fire and back in the frying pan, hmm?” she jokes, and then her gaze becomes a little more deliberate. “Makes you a rare individual.”

She ushers them in while telling them about ‘Ouijaing’ through a dozen spirits and finding not a single clue one Dean’s resurrection, or resurrector.

“So what’s next?” Bobby asks.

“A séance, I think,” she says. “See if we can see who did the deed.”

“You’re not gonna, uh, summon the damn thing here, are ya?” Bobby’s voice is rightfully concerned. Pamela laughs and explains that she just wants a sneak peak at whatever it was that raised Dean.

“I’m game,” Dean says.

Pamela squats while she finds candles to set on her intricately decorated tablecloth. Her tank top rides up to reveal a scrawling tattoo that reads: Jesse Forever.

“Who’s Jesse?” Dean asks.

“Well,” Pamela laughs, “it wasn’t forever.”

Dean missed flirting more than he thought and finds himself keeping up the banter, much to Sam’s discomfort.

“She’s gonna eat you alive,” Sam whispers to him and Dean laughs until Pamela passes by.

“You’re invited too, grumpy.”

“You are _not_ invited,” Dean yelps.

While Dean and the others arrange themselves around the table, Dean wonders is Pamela _knows_. She’s a psychic, so she must know, right? He’s distracted by the way his balls scrunch up when he sits down, yet another thing he never would have anticipated, and has to adjust himself before he joins hands with the others.

“I need to touch something our mystery monster touched,” Pamela announces and her fingers slide up Dean’s thigh and he feels his dick _twitch_ , and he flinches.

“Whoa,” he yelps, “he didn’t touch me there.” And that’s a lie, it has to be. This asshole, demon or whatever it may be, _had_ to have touched him _there_ , right?

“My mistake,” Pamela says, and there’s a very _knowing_ tone in her voice. Dean pulls off his flannel and then lifts up his sleeve to show her the brand. Sam’s gaze is hot on his skin, shock evident, but he says nothing.

“Okay,” Pamela murmurs and they call close their eyes. She begins chanting her incantation to reveal the face of Dean’s escape artist. Then, suddenly:

“Castiel? No,” she says. The TV in the room flickers on and hums with static. “Sorry Castiel, I don’t scare easy.

“Castiel?” Dean questions, eyes opening. Pamela turns slightly toward him.

“Its name,” she explains. “It’s whispering to me, wanting me to turn back.” She continues to chant while the table starts to rattle and Dean’s ears pop.

“Maybe we should stop,” Bobby yells over the noise.

“I almost got it!” Pamela hollers back. “I command you, show me your face,” she yells. “Show me your face _now_!”

The candles flare, flames shooting up several feet, and Pamela screams hoarsely. Her eyes open and Dean catches a glimpse of light, like white-hot embers in her sockets. She collapses and the flames die almost immediately. Bobby catches her and yells at Sam to call 9-1-1.

“We can’t be here when the ambulance arrives, we don’t have a way to explain,” Dean yells to Bobby over Pamela’s screams.

“We can’t just leave her,” Bobby objects, but Pamela’s arm jumps up to grip his shoulder. She’s sobbing, but she manages to talk.

“No, he’s right. Set me in the kitchen and pour some bleach out, I can make it look like an accident.” Dean helps Bobby carry her and they set her by one of the cabinets. Bobby opens the tallest one and knocks some stuff around to make it look like she was reaching for something and the bleach on the top shelf just happened to fall on her face.

“I told the operator I’m a neighbor,” Sam says when he hangs up. “I just told them I heard screaming so the cops might show up too, sorry.” Pamela laughs, even though there’s a mix of tears and blood streaming down her face, draping over her cheekbones.

“You find that son of a bitch,” she hisses, and then lays down on the floor. They leave her like that, jogging out to the car and leaving quickly so as not to arouse suspicion.

Somehow, Dean ends up at a diner, asking for a slice of pie. Sam’s walks in a moment later and sits down across from him. Bobby went to the hospital after Pam got picked up, posing as a concerned relative, to keep watch on her condition.

“Pam’s stable,” Sam says when Dean asks about her. “Out of ICU, too.”

“And blind,” Dean says sourly. “Because of us.”

_Because of you_ , says a voice in the back of his mind.

“At least we got a name,” Dean forces out, fumbling with the napkin dispenser. “Castiel, or whatever. We could try and summon him with the right stuff, bring him right to us.” Sam scoffs, “You’re crazy, absolutely not. Pam got a little peek and her eyes got burned out of her skull, and now you want a _face to face_?!”

“You got a better idea?”

“As a matter of fact,” Sam simpers, “I do. Remember how I said I followed some demons to town?” Dean nods. “So we should find them. _Somebody’s_ gotta know something about something, right?”

The waitress reappears and they both fall silent, waiting for her to leave. She stands and stares at Dean for a moment and he instinctively wonders if she _knows_. She turns away and Dean practically sighs in relief.

She returns, this time with a chair. She sets it down at the end of the table, sits down, and smirks.

Dean smirks back, “You angling for a tip?” She purses her lips.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were looking for us,” she sneers and her eyes flash back. Dean’s eyes flick over to the other people in the diner, a cook and a man in a uniform, but both of them have black eyes too. The man in the uniform sidles over to the door, locks it, and stands in front of it.

“Dean,” the waitress gushes. “To hell and back. Aren’t you a _lucky_ duck.”

“That’s me,” Dean retorts, careful to keep the fear out of his voice.

“So, you get to just stroll out of the pit, huh?” she says, bitterness in her tone. “Tell me, what makes you so special?”

“I like to think it’s because of my perky nipples,” Dean snaps. “I don’t know, wasn’t my doing.”

“ _Right_ , you don’t know.”

“No, I don’t,” Dean says, and her face contorts for just a moment.

“Lying’s a sin, you know.”

“I’m not lying,” he insists. “But I’d like to find out, so if you wouldn’t mind enlightening me-” his eyes dart down to her nametag, “-Flo.”

“Mind your tone with me, boy,” she hisses, “I’ll drag you back to hell _myself_.”

Sam lurches forward, _attack_ written in the movement of his body, but Dean stops him, casually throwing a hand up.

“No, you won’t.”

“No?” the demon jeers.

“No. Because if you were, you would have done it already,” Dean says, feeling the power in his own voice. It feels so good to be in control, even better up here and not down-

He stamps down the train of thought with finality.

“Fact is, you don’t know who cut me loose. You’re just as spooked as we are,” Dean snorts. “You’re looking for answers, but we ain’t got ‘em. Could’a been a spirit, some boss demon, Godzilla, the usual crowd. I’m guessing at your pay grade that they don’t tell you squat,” the demon’s brows arch in anger, confirming his line of thought. “Whoever it was, they wanted me out and they’re a hell of a lot stronger than you. So go ahead, why don’t you? Send me back. But don’t come crawling to me when they show up at your doorstep with Vaseline and a fire hose.” She’s still smiling, but Dean notes that rage is etched into her face like words on a stone tablet.

“I’m going to reach down your throat and rip out your lungs,” she spits. Dean leans forward at her suddenly and is rewarded with a flinch. Satisfied, he raises his hand as if to slap her, but tweaks her nose instead. She sits, frozen, but Dean sees her swallow slowly as he stands up, Sam right after him.

“That’s what I thought,” Dean finishes. “Let’s go Sam.”

He leaves behind a ten dollar bill, throwing it down like a gauntlet.

“For the pie.”

They make it to a hotel, and Dean passes out while reading about Lazarus. The rock hard couch is a familiar comfort. At some point he thinks he hears an engine revving, but he’s too sleepy to care.

When he wakes up, there’s a familiar hum vibrating against his eardrums and the room is filled with the sound of static from the TV and radio. He rolls to the bed and grabs the shotgun set next to it, and sees Sam’s bed is empty. The hum crescendos and rises up to a screech. He slaps his right hand against his ear, keeping the gun in his left. The noise is so piercing that he feels himself getting dizzy. White spots appear in his vision. He hears a cracking noise above him and looks up to see a reflection of himself, grimacing and hunched.

The mirror breaks and rains down on him. He crumples to the ground and drops the gun, both hands pressed to the sides of his head.  
The windows, the front of the TV, a glass on the nightstand: all of them are potent weapons when shattered and being launched in every direction. He’s screaming, he can feel it in his throat, but he can’t hear it over the screech that drowns everything out with a single note.

In the distance, a muffled voice yells his name and the note descends and dissipates, leaving him curled up on the floor with shards of glass embedded in his hands.  
Bobby drops down next to him and shakes his shoulder, still yelling but Dean can barely hear him, let alone understand what he’s saying. It takes him half an hour before he’s able to clearly hear anything other than that tone reverberating around his skull.

They head out in the impala, sans Sam. Bobby drives while Dean wipes blood off of his face from his hands. Bobby asks how he’s doing and Dean snaps at him, tired and exhausted. A moment later he pulls his cell phone out and calls Sam to avoid feeling guilty.

“What are you doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sam says. “Went to get a burger.”

“In _my_ car?”

“Force of habit, sorry,” Dean can hear that weird tone in Sam’s voice again. But he tells himself that it’s not the time, not yet. “What are you doing up?” Dean considers the question.

“Well, uh, Bobby’s back from the hospital,” true. “We’re going to grab a beer,” not so true. Bobby looks over at him, incredulous, but Dean holds up a finger to stop him from talking. Sam says goodbye and Dean hangs up.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell him?”

“Because he doesn’t was us to summon this thing.”

“I don’t want us to summon this thing either, boy!” Bobby says, shocked. “We don’t have any idea what this thing is? It could be a demon, it could be some witch, it could be _anything_!”

“And that’s why we’ve got to be ready for _anything_ ,” Dean retorts, and pulls the knife Ruby gave to Sam out of his belt. “I’ve got the magic knife, you’ve got the arsenal in the trunk-”

“This is a bad idea,” Bobby cuts in. Dean almost strangles him, he’s so tired of hearing people say that.

“What other choice do we have?”

“Life!” Dean groans and slams his head back against the headrest.

“Look Bobby, whatever this thing is, it’s trying to get in contact again. That much we know, right?” Bobby nods grudgingly. “I’ve got no place to hide. Now I can either get caught with my pants down again or we can actually do _something_ and make a stand.” Bobby sighs and Dean knows he’s got him.

“Dean, we could use Sam on this.” Dean’s stomach drops and he looks away, resolute.  
“He's better off where he is.”

They spend the rest of the ride in silence.

Act III.

Bobby drives them to an old warehouse, far away from any sign of civilization. It’s dark outside but there are old fluorescent lights dangling from the ceiling that have just a little bit of juice left in them. They pull a few duffel bags full of assorted ingredients, spray paint cans, and weapons; all necessary tools for a hunter. The walls are already covered with various designs, but they don’t meet Bobby’s standards.

They spend almost an hour painting new intricate symbols for protection, binding, banishing, you name it, before Bobby is even remotely satisfied. There are traps for demons every 20 feet or so, guaranteeing that it would be almost impossible for a demon to get to them without getting stuck. Still, Bobby seems jumpy.

While the older hunter finishes up, Dean sets up the weapons. Every single gun they have is laid out, a different type of ammo in each: rocksalt, silver, bronze, wooden. They’re all oiled and within easy reach. Next to them are the knives and stakes, similarly prepared. Dean keeps Ruby’s knife especially close by. Bobby finishes the last design with a flourish of white spray paint.

“That’s a hell of an art project you’ve got going on there,” Dean comments.

“Traps and talismans from every faith on the globe,” he gestures to the table, “How we doin?”

“Stakes, iron, salt, silver, knife, we could kill pretty much anything in here,” he says. “How’d you even set this place up anyways?”

“Won it in a gambling match and used it to summon the leader of a flock of harpies that were trying to starve an entire town,” Bobby looks meaningfully toward a bloodstain next to the table. He sighs, “Boy, this is still a bad idea and you know it.”

“Yeah, Bobby, I’m pretty sure I heard you the first ten times.”

“Couldn’t be sure after your friend came calling on you.” Dean snorted. True, there was still a faint ringing in his ears and if he focuses too hard he can feel the beginning of a migraine, but it’s _probably_ fine.

“What do you say we ring the dinner bell, old man?” Bobby snorts but obliges him, going to a desk by the tables and pulling out a bowl. He takes some of the powder out of it and puts it into the larger bowl already sitting on the desk and full of a mix of ingredients.

Immediately, it begins to smoke.

Bobby starts chanting in Latin, but Dean can’t quite keep up with it so he just keeps himself close to the weapons and focuses on the double doors at the other end of the warehouse. Every once in a while Dean hears Bobby say the name- Castiel- and perks up. There’s something about the name that pulls at Dean. He can feel the brand acutely, the ache of it going down to the bone.

But nothing appears.

The chant ends, eventually, and Bobby stands by Dean, eyes trained on the doors. Dean tries not to check the time on his phone, but when he does an hour has passed. Finally, Dean breaks the silence and clears his throat. Bobby looks up at him and he shrugs. The pads of his feet start to ache and he finds himself hopping up to sit on the table, letting his feet swing freely.

Another 20 minutes pass like this, until Dean can stand the silence no longer. He opens his mouth to speak-

“Are you alright, kid?” Bobby interjects, and Dean’s mouth snaps shut. The question takes him by surprise, gently worded in a soothing tone. Bobby’s eyes are concerned when he looks at him.

“Well, the whole Hell Thing kinda fucked me up, but that’s alright,” he manages.

“I thought you said you didn’t remember it,” Bobby accuses.

“I don’t, really,” Dean says, maybe a little too fast. “It’s just the whole waking up in a coffin and finding out I’m not dead thing.” Bobby’s eyes soften.

“It’s the- the, uh,” Bobby flounders for words. “It’s the new body thing, isn’t it?” Dean jumps on it because he knows Bobby will believe him if he plays it up convincingly enough; some of it he won’t have to play up at all.

“Yeah, it’s not what I was expecting, you know,” he mutters. “Going out and getting the surgery I want, when I want it, is one thing. This is completely different. Not that I’m not, uh, _grateful_ , but I wanted some choice in it, I guess.” Bobby nods.

“Well, if you ever want to talk about it,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed.

“Yeah, thanks Bobby. I’m really thankful for that,” which is the truth. Nobody could ask for a more supportive pseudo-parent than Bobby. And of course he feels guilty, how could he not? He ought to, for deceiving the only-

“Either I read the chant wrong or this asshole’s not showing,” Bobby declares.

“Hey, touchy, touchy, huh?”

And then the roof starts to rattle. The panels jerk up and down, showing slivers of the turbulent sky. Dean and Bobby both grab shotguns and face the doors. There’s a feel of static in the air, like lightning’s about to strike. Dean can hear his own heartbeat pulse, feel the blood thrumming in his veins.

“Wishful thinking, but maybe it’s just the wind,” Dean says, voice raised over the crashing sound of the roof.  
The door bursts open to reveal a silhouette, framed in light by the light of a lamp just outside. The figure steps forwards into the light, striding with a purpose toward them.

He wears a trenchcoat over a business suit and nice black shoes, a tie hanging haphazardly around his collar. He’s tall, but Dean can’t get an idea of his build with all the clothes on. The man (Dean presumes) is unarmed but walks like a soldier walking onto a battlefield, poise and strength in every step, nothing in his eyes but a cold determination. Dean has seen his father, Sam, Bobby, and a hundred other hunters wear the same expression before, probably worn it himself.

Dean is startled by the sound of gunfire next to him; Bobby opens up on the man with precision and Dean does the same. Each bullet strikes the man in the chest and releases a stream of blood, but he continues to stride toward them. Above him, the lights blow out and rain sparks down on his mussed hair, framing his face in light. Dean strains to make out the man’s eyes, but can see only an ordinary blue without a hint of black. He takes note when the man walks through every sigil, trap, and character without so much as a glance.

When the man is within 20 feet of them, Bobby turns to the table for a close range weapon. Dean grabs Ruby’s knife and spreads his feet, preparing to attack or defend, whichever came first.

The man doesn’t so much as look at Bobby, eyes trained on Dean like a hunting dog. He circles around him and Dean maintains his distance, taking note of Bobby grabbing a silver rod and approaching the man.

“Who are you?” he questions, knife held tight in his hand. The man’s gaze turns piercing and Dean can almost _feel_ the intensity of the man’s stare.

“I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition,” the man says, as if it is that simple. His voice is gravelly and deep, self-assured.

Dean sneers at him.

“Yeah, well, thanks for that,” he hisses and rears back only to shove the knife as deep as he can into the man’s chest. He lets go and step back, waiting for him to dissolve, burn, explode, _something_. A hit directly to the heart like that can’t do _nothing_.

But that’s exactly what it does. The man looks down at the knife and smiles, almost smirks. He seems almost _pleased_. _Oh, how cute_ , Dean imagines him thinking. The man reaches up and pulls the knife out of his chest, dropping it to the floor. The loud clank it makes when it hits the concrete startles Dean, and he flinches.

The man moves to take another step toward Dean, but Bobby chooses that moment to swing. The man turns around so fast that all Dean registers is the swirl of the trenchcoat. Before he really knows what’s happening, the man is holding the silver rod with one hand and his fingertips from the other are pressed to Bobby’s forehead. Dean feels his ears pop and Bobby crumples to the ground. The man watches Bobby for half a second while Dean gapes, jaw working like a fish.

“We need to talk, Dean,” the man says, and turns around, brows furrowed like he’s _concerned_. When Dean says nothing, he adds on, “alone.”

Dean ignores the man and squats next to Bobby, checks his pulse. The man doesn’t seem to care, although when Dean glares at him, he actually sniffs like he’s offended and says:

“Your friend’s alive.” Dean thinks of Pamela and glares at him.

“Who are you?” he asks, again. For such a seemingly simple question it’s very hard to get an answer.

“Castiel,” the man says, and walks over to the desk. Bobby left the book he had the incantation in open and ‘Castiel’ flips through the pages, eyes darting between lines of text. Dean stands up and takes a step closer.

“Yeah,” he says bitterly. “I figured that much. I mean _what_ are you?”

“I’m an Angel of the Lord,” Castiel says, so matter-of-factly that Dean almost laughs.

“Get the hell outta here,” he snorts. “There’s no such thing.” Castiel looks up now, eyes soft. He steps away from the table and Dean backs away so that Castiel doesn't get within reach.

“This is your problem, Dean,” he murmurs, and his gaze hardens. “You have no faith.” He rolls his shoulders back, flexes his fingers, and stares at Dean. For a moment Dean is baffled at this...display.

But then, there’s a flash of light in the warehouse and a crack of thunder that sets Dean's heart racing. The light throws great shadows behind Castiel, and for a moment Dean glimpses _wings_. They unfurl behind the man, no, _angel_ , and he hears them beat the air and they are gone. Castiel smiles and _holy shit_ Dean wants to punch him in the face. This son of a bitch thinks that it’s okay to burn a woman’s eyes out, nearly tear his eardrums, change his body, take him away from-

“Some angel you are,” Dean huffs. “You burned out that poor woman’s eyes.” At this, Castiel actually looks genuinely ashamed, but ashamed in the way a puppy looks after chewing on a shoe.

“I warned her not to spy on my true form,” he protests. “It can be… overwhelming to humans.” He bites his lip and looks at Dean. “And so can my real voice, but you already knew that.”

“You mean the gas station and the motel?” Dean asks, incredulous. “That was you _talking_?” Castiel nods. “I thought it was just- well- I don’t know, scare tactics? But buddy, next time, lower the volume.”

“That was my mistake,” Castiel admits. “Certain people, _special_ people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them, but- I was wrong.”

“And what visage are you in now, huh? What, holy tax accountant?” Castiel looks down at himself, at the bullet holes and blood dripping from his chest. He touches the coat and tie, almost reverent, and looks up at Dean as though proud.

“This- this is a vessel,” he says.

“You’re possessing some poor bastard?” he asks, disgusted. Castiel’s eyebrows raise and he smiles, bemused.

“He’s a devout man, he actually prayed for this.”

“Well, I’m not buying what you’re selling,” Dean snorts. “So, who are you, really?” Deep down Dean knows that Castiel has to be an angel, because there’s really no other explanation. But he wants one. He doesn’t want to know that angels are real, because if angels are real, then heaven has to be real, and if heaven is real, then G-

“I told you already, I’m an Angel of the Lord,” Castiel frowns.

“Right. And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?”

“Good things do happen, Dean.” And at this point, Dean’s had enough. He’s just about ready to see if decapitation will kill this guy, but he has to know.

“And what about-” he hesitates for a moment, once again grasping for words, but instead he just gestures to himself, “this.”

“This?” Castiel is obviously confused and Dean really doesn’t want to ask an actual angel why he has a penis, but that’s what’s gonna happen.

“Yes, this,” he says, exasperated. “When you raised me, you put me in a different body, didn’t you? Or you made a new one, at least?” Castiel’s face is going to get frown lines just from this conversation.

“No, when I found your soul in the pit I laid my hand upon it and used the information I found there to reconstruct your body as it was, although anew. I’ll admit I was even proud of it.” Dean turns away and groans, rubbing at the back of his neck. He almost feels guilty for stomping on this guy’s expectations, but he’s still pissed off and he can hear it in his voice.

“Well, you did it wrong.”

Dean hears the beat of wings and suddenly Castiel is in front of him, hand grasping at his chin and the other at his shoulder, almost aligned with the brand. Dean can feel the heat of his palm seeping into the meat of his shoulder and his heart races at the strange sensation.

Castiel getly turns Dean's head to face him, blue eyes darting over his features as he panics.

“What do you mean? Are you hurt? Do your joints work properly? Have you been able to urinate or defecate yet? Oh, is it your-”

“You gave me a penis!” Dean yells and shoves the angel away, although he can only push him back a foot or so. The angel’s mouth snaps shut with an audible _clack_. Dean feels his face reddening and he rubs at his eyes furiously. For a minute, other than Dean’s labored breathing and the hiss of the remaining fluorescent light bulbs, there is silence.

“But you are male, aren’t you?” Castiel questions. “When I touched your memories, you remembered yourself as male.”

“I’m transgender, Castiel,” Dean hisses, and Castiel’s mouth forms an ‘o’ shape before it snaps shut again.

“Transgender?” he questions.

“Yeah, I was born with a vagina but when I was growing up I figured out I’m a dude, thus why I don’t- didn’t- have a penis,” he explains. Castiel’s brows furrow even further.

“Is this the mangona you were speaking with Robert Singer about?” he asks. Dean struggles to keep a straight face.

“Yeah, my mangina, I call it. You know, vagina for a man. Funnier that way, to me at least,” he snorts.

But Castiel doesn’t laugh. He just stares, before his gaze turns resolute and his mouth sets in a grim line.

“Dean Winchester, I apologize for wronging you in this way, I will immediately take action to right this and return you to your previous-”

“No, no, don’t do that!” Dean yelps as Castiel approaches, hand raised to press his fingertips to Dean’s face. The angel’s brows raise in surprise.

“You… do not want to be in your previous body?” Dean laughs and the angel just looks more confused.

“No, no, I thought you did this on purpose, so that I would be indebted to you.” Castiel practically gasps in shock.

“As a servant of heaven, I would never commit a crime so heinous-”

“I know that now, but I thought you were a demon,” Dean sighs. This situation is ridiculous, and he wants to laugh and yank his own hair out at the same time. Frustration boils just beneath the surface of his consciousness. If he were to be honest he would say that he still feels violated, simply because it wasn’t his choice. But he doesn’t have time for this, to feel sorry for himself. If anything, he should be grateful, right? He resists the urge to groan and instead repeats one of his earlier questions.

“So: why would an angel rescue me from Hell?” Castiel’s eyes lock with his.

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved?”

Dean, as it is becoming a trend, wants to hit the angel in the face. He _really_ doesn’t want to have a conversation about his feelings toward himself right now. He’s already much too worked up.

“Why’d you do it?” Dean demands. The angel squares his shoulders and nods to Dean in what almost appears to be a mockery of a bow.

“Because God commanded it,” he says and Dean almost trembles at the purpose in Castiel’s voice.

“Because we have work for you.”


	2. Interlude I: Haircut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John and Mary Winchester go to the hospital they are expecting a beautiful baby girl, and they get one. They name her Deanna, in honor of Mary’s mother, and think nothing of it. She grows up strong and healthy, with a face full of freckles and happy smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been awhile, and I sincerely apologize (I just got out of school and now I'm packing to move). It's been a busy couple of weeks.  
> This is the first in a series of interludes I'll have in between chapters that are set in the 'present' time (season 4 and forwards). I'm going to try to explain how Dean got to where he is today according to this version.

When John and Mary Winchester go to the hospital they are expecting a beautiful baby girl, and they get one. They name her Deanna, in honor of Mary’s mother, and think nothing of it. She grows up strong and healthy, with a face full of freckles and happy smiles.

 

One day in preschool Deanna is playing house with the other girls.

“I’ll be the mommy, Emily can be the daughter,” Jennifer declares. “Deanna, what do you wanna be?”

“I’ll be the daddy,” she says. She tries to imitate her daddy’s deep voice and beams when Jennifer call her strong and brave. Later, when she tries to play with the boys they tell her that they don’t want to.

“You’re just a sissy,” Jimmy objects and Deanna feels her cheeks flush with shame and anger. Jimmy goes home with a bruised cheekbone and Deanna has to talk with her preschool teacher, Ms. Kenny, about her feelings.

 

When Deanna is four her mom is killed in a house fire. She wakes up in the middle of the night to screaming and yelling and stumbles out of bed, rubbing her eyes. Her dad shoves Sammy, small and helpless, into her arms and tells her to go outside. She watches the house burn down with her infant brother cradled in her arms.

 

Deanna’s dad takes them away to a hotel and then leaves for awhile. Deanna takes care of Sammy until he comes back. He stumbles into the room, swaying and smelling strange. He puts Sammy on one of the beds and sits Deanna down on the other.

Deanna learns that a yellow-eyed-demon killed her mother, not a fire.

Two years and five motels later, Deanna goes out shooting with her dad for the first time and bull-eyes almost every single glass bottle standing in the row. She will remember this moment for the rest of her life as one of her fonder memories of her dad.

 

Deanna’s first hunt isn’t really a hunt, per say. Deanna is 9 and Sam is at a sleepover birthday party. Her dad decides that he can’t leave her in the hotel room alone ( _it’s not a safe world for little girls, Deanna!_ ) and takes her along. He leaves her in the car while he hunts a poltergeist that’s been attacking young mothers in twisted revenge for the miscarriage that killed her.

Deanna stays in the car, doesn’t so much as think of opening the door, but the ghost still approaches. The ghost is ethereal, but rotting, wearing a nightgown and her own blood. Deanna spots her on the lawn of a house across the street and huddles in her seat. She thinks about grabbing the shotgun in the trunk but she’s scared she won’t be fast enough.

She sees the windows of the car frosting over, and her breath in the air turns white. She screams at the top of her lungs, hoping that her father will hear her, wherever he is. The door wrenches open to reveal the ghost, and she rolls out of the seat, through the woman, and onto the street. She runs as fast as she can toward the house that she’s _pretty sure_ her dad broke into.

She gets to the lawn, triumph in her step, when her head yanks back with so much force that she topples to the ground, neck aching. She feels the yank at her head again and realizes that the ghost has her waist-length hair entwined in her fingers.

“You’re not pregnant yet,” the ghost hisses, “but a pretty slut like you will be knocked up by 20. Let me spare you the pain,” the woman’s hands leave her hair to twist around her throat, pressing so hard that Deanna feels tears running down her face.

 _Can't breathe, can't breathe!_ Deanna writhes, but can't get away, the woman has a hand in her hair while the other chokes her-

Bang!

Deanna gasps like a fish, each breath the most delicious and painful thing she’s ever experienced.

“Are you okay?” her dad gasps, sawed off shotgun clutched tight while he looks over his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, voice hoarse. Her throat feels tender and raw.

“Come with me,” he whispers back, pulling her off of the ground.

Deanna follows him, looking behind herself every few steps. He leads her into the basement of one of the houses and hands her a carton of salt. He gestures to a shallow hole dug in the ground to reveal a small wooden box that’s been opened. Inside is a single lock of blonde hair, the exact same shade of the ghost’s.

“You salt it, I’ll burn it,” he murmurs gruffly. Deanna pours a liberal amount of the salt in and her dad douses it in gasoline. He lights a match and drops it in. In the distance she hears a pained, squealing screech but her dad doesn’t react so she doesn’t worry. Deanna sees a dark shadow pass over his face before the fire reflects in his eyes and he turns to her.

“You’re one of _us_ now, kid,” he says and Deanna feels a spark of pride in her gut.

 

While they’re driving back Deanna asks if she can get her hair cut short ( _to be more convenient for hunts_ , she explained to her dad). Morning has already come by then so they pull into the parking lot of a barber.

Deanna emerges less than half an hour later sporting a grin and hair that’s just long enough to spike it up a little in the front like the boys in her class.

When Sammy comes back after the sleepover he gapes at her hair and begs to touch to and she gleefully complies, delighting in the scratchy, velvety feel on her scalp. This is another moment that she will remember for the rest of her life with fondness.

One of the few.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters focusing on 'It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester,' are in the works but there will be references to what happens in the episodes between that and Lazarus Rising, have no fear


	3. Are You There, God?  It's Me, Dean Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, thanks a lot for the angelic assistance,” Dean snorts. “You know, I almost got my _heart_ ripped out of my _chest_.”
> 
> “But you didn’t,” Castiel observes. Dean thinks about fuzzy things, like cute bunnies, instead of how easily he could get this angel into a headlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGH I wrote this in like 3 hours or less and there's still no beta so it's only been proofread by me. Hope you enjoy!

A few days after the ‘Castiel Incident’ Dean wakes up and realizes that there’s no such thing as angels. There can’t be. Because if angels exist, then Heaven (with a capital H!) exists. And if Heaven exists, then…

God exists.

That’s something that Dean simply _can’t_ wrap his head around. Why would the ultimate, omnipotent, omniscient being create a planet, fill it with assholes, and just let it be? Because what ‘righteous’ god could let things like slavery, genocide, and disease happen? _Furthermore_ , what ultimate, omnipotent, omniscient being would have the _gall_ to start putting people in bodies with the wrongs bits downstairs?

It just doesn’t add up, and that’s exactly what he tells Bobby and Sam.

“Well, then tell me what else it could be,” Sam protests. They’re in Bobby’s office, Bobby at his desk covered in books, Sam in a chair covered in books, and Dean standing in the corner, too aggravated to read.

“Look, all I know is that I was _not_ groped by an angel.”

“Okay, but look, Dean,” Sam reasons, “why do you think this, this _Castiel_ , would lie to you about it?” Dean already thought about the answer to this.

“Maybe he’s some kind of demon. Demons lie.” Bobby sighs at him and flips to the back of the book he’s scanning.

“A demon who’s immune to salt rounds and devil’s traps- and Ruby’s knife!?” Sam scoffs. “Dean, _Lilith_ is scared of that thing!”

“Don’t you think that if angels were real then some hunter, somewhere, would have seen one? At some point- ever?” Dean snaps, crossing his arms.

“Yeah,” Sam grumbles, “you just did, Dean.”

Dean resists the urge to scream.

“I’m just trying to come up with a theory, okay?” he says. “Work with me.” Sam’s face twists into Ultimate Bitchface Number Three, one of the strongest of the bunch.

“Dean, we _have_ a theory.”

“If you could give me one with a little less fairy dust on it, that’d be great,” he mutters bitterly. Sam’s face softens and Dean feels like breaking his nose.

“Look, I’m not saying we know for _sure_ , I’m just saying that we should-”

“That’s the point!” Dean interjects. “We don’t know for sure, so I’m not gonna believe that this thing is a fucking Angel of the Lord just because it says so!” Sam exhales out of his nostrils loudly and Dean mentally prepares all of his favorite insults.

“Are you two chuckleheads gonna keep arguing religion or do you wanna come over here and take a look at this?” Bobby says, interrupting their potentially nuclear war. He gestures to the dusty books on his desk, each looking much too big and much too boring for Dean’s tastes.

“I got stacks of lore,” Bobby says, flipping open a volume that’s barely held together at the spine. “Biblical, pre-Biblical, some of it’s damn cuneiform.” The writing is a language that Dean doesn’t know but there are a few illustrations that draw his eyes; angels, wearing colorful robes and sporting wings of various sizes and shades. Bobby looks up at Dean, “it all says an angel can snatch a soul from the pit.”

“What else?” Dean asks.

“What else, what?”

“What else could do it?” Dean asks, frustrated.

“Airlift your ass out of the hot box?” Bobby snorts, “as far as I can tell, nothing.” Sam turns and puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, grinning.

“Dean, this is good news,” he says, excited almost.

“How!?” Sam sighs and grimaces at him.

“Because for once, _just this once_ , this isn’t another round of demon crap,” he explains. “I mean, maybe you were saved by one of the good guys, you know?”

Dean wants to believe. He believed when Castiel peacocked and showed off his feathers, but now it seems unreal. In his experience things like _this_ , things this _good_ , just didn’t happen. And if they did, there was a price.

“Okay,” he sighs, “say it’s true. Say there _are_ angels. Then what?” he asks, staring at Sam and Bobby’s confused faces. “There’s _God_?” Bobby’s mouth purses before he responds.

“At this point,” he says it as though he’s pained to even say it, “Vegas money’s on yeah.”

“I don’t know, guys,” Dean protests. They didn’t even see the wings and they believe just like that?

“Okay, look,” Sam says, like he does every time when he’s trying to compromise with Dean. “I know you’re not all choirboy about this stuff, but it’s becoming less and less about _faith_ and more and more about _proof_.”

“Proof?” Dean says, incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Proof that there’s a God out there that actually gives a crap about me personally? I’m sorry, but I’m not buying it,” he hisses. Sam sighs, for the nth time.

“Why _not_?”

“Because why _me_? If there is a God out there, why would he give a crap about me?”

“Dean-” Sam starts, but Dean is quick to cut him off.

“I mean, I’ve saved some people, right? That probably makes up for the gambling and stealing and shit, but why do I deserve to be saved, huh?” he asks.

“Because-” Sam starts again, but Dean is on a roll, now.

“And if he does give a crap, which is doubtful,” he scoffs, “then why _this_? Why the hell would he make my life, and a whole lot of other folks’ lives, a living hell just by putting us in the wrong body? What god would pull that kind of shit, huh?” he’s yelling now, but he doesn’t care. “Whatever god decided that was a _great fucking idea_ is not the god that I want work for, _okay_?”

The room falls silent except for Dean’s labored breathing. Sam opens his mouth and then closes it again. Dean feels like he’s drowning in the tension in the room, just about to snap. He huffs out a breath.

“ _Whatever_ ,” he grunts, grabbing an armful of books from Bobby’s desk and leaving the room to stomp upstairs and just be alone.

 

Some time later, when Dean has thumbed through about half of the old testament in a King James Bible, somebody knocks on the door of the guest bedroom he’s locked himself in. Dean doesn’t say, or do, anything. There’s a moment of silence before the knock comes again.

“It’s me, Dean” Bobby says through the wood. “Sam went out to get some air. He promised he’d bring back pie.” Dean’s stomach grumbles and he knows that Bobby told Sam to get his favorite dessert, so he opens the door.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Just let me in, chuckle head,” Bobby huffs.

 

Bobby sits down on the bed next to him, fiddles with the pages of one of the particularly old books. Dean remembers sitting down next to Bobby on this same bed years ago and crying into his shoulder, shoulders jumping with his sobbing. Dean remains standing and crosses his arms.

“Why are you being so stubborn with this angel shit, boy?” Bobby asks.

“You know why,” Dean mutters, not meeting his basically-dad’s eyes. Bobby says nothing. “Angels _can’t_ be real, it doesn’t add up,” he protests.

“That’s bull and you know it,” Bobby snaps and Dean looks at the man. He’s frowning under his scruffy beard. “And of course whatever God this is, God with a capital G that is, of course he’s an asshole! He made this shithole, didn’t he?” he grumbles. “Sam and I, we just don’t think about the kind of stuff you do, we don’t usually think about it _period_ unless you’re talking about it, alright?”

Dean, feeling thoroughly chastised, sits down next to Bobby. The older hunter rubs his back, and then shoves at his shoulder.

“And tell your brother about what’s going on, you know he’s going to find out eventually, you know that,” he orders and tells Dean he’s going to go ask Olivia Lowry, a local hunter, if she knows anything about angels. Dean is left, once again, with a pile of dusty old books.

 

When Sam returns (without pie!) and Olivia Lowry still hasn’t responded, they all head out to check on her. They find a gruesome scene: Lowry’s corpse on the floor with its chest ripped apart. Bobby calls some hunters nearby who also don’t answer and goes to check on them alone. He finds a repeat of the scene at Lowry’s house.

They check on a few more hunters in the areas and find the same, each more gruesome than the last. The EMF at every single place is at a level that Dean has only seen in cases of extremely powerful spirits that have congregated together. He and Sam start driving back to Bobby’s and Dean finds himself asleep in the passenger seat.

He wakes up to the sound of Sam crying out and glass breaking. The impala is parked next to a gas pump and he hears another loud noise coming from his left. He spots a bathroom, jumps out of the car, and sprints toward it. He pulls the gun he had tucked into the back of his jeans out and checks to see if it’s loaded before kicking down the door.

Before him is a puzzling picture:

Sam lays on the ground, blood streaming from an obviously broken nose. Above him stands Victor Henriksen, ethereal and reaching for the back of his brother’s neck.

Dean doesn’t hesitate as he lines up his shot and blows the cop away.

 

Several hours later, after finding about a panic room, discovering a sign of the possibly impending apocalypse, and repeatedly shooting people, Dean is exhausted, and in more ways than one. His hands are shaking from holding his gun up for so long and his eyes hurt from darting every which way while he crept around Bobby’s house. His chest aches where Victor Henriksen gripped his heart and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever recover from the tortured look on Meg’s face.

The case solved, Sam crashes on the couch and Dean curls up on a mattress on the floor nearby. He falls asleep almost instantly, dreams vague, but disturbing nonetheless.

 

At some point in the middle of the night, he jolts awake. In the kitchen there is a silhouette that he recognizes almost instinctively. He rolls off of the mattress, careful not to wake Sam, and approaches Castiel.

“Excellent job with the witnesses,” Castiel murmurs, voice even more gravelly than Dean remembered.

“You knew about all this?” Dean hisses, furious. Castiel shifts slightly.

“I was… made aware.”

“Well, thanks a lot for the angelic assistance,” Dean snorts. “You know, I almost got my _heart_ ripped out of my _chest_.”

“But you didn’t,” Castiel observes. Dean thinks about fuzzy things, like cute bunnies, instead of how easily he could get this angel into a headlock.

“I thought angels were supposed to be guardians,” he says, remembering what his mother always said to him before he went to sleep. _Angels are watching over you_ , she would whisper, glancing at the little figurine by his bed. “Fluffy wings, halos- you know, Michael Landon. Not _dicks_.” Dean can barely make out the features of Castiel’s face. The only light comes from behind the angel, creating a silver ring around his unkempt hair.

Castiel's jaw shifts, clenches.

“Read the bible,” he says shortly. “Angels are warriors of God. I’m a soldier.”  
“  
Yea?” Dean snorts, “then why didn’t you fight?”

“I’m not here to perch on your shoulder,” he hisses. “We had _larger_ concerns.” Dean feels belittled, put aside. Wasn’t he chosen, or whatever?

“Concerns?” he scoffs. “There were people, _good_ people, getting torn to shreds down here!” Castiel turns away but Dean catches his gaze again, forcibly looking him in the eyes. “And by the way, with all this shit going on, where the hell is your boss, huh? If there _is_ a God.”

“There’s a God,” Castiel says quickly, with steady assurance.

“I’m not convinced,” Dean snaps. “‘Cause if there is a God then what the hell is he waiting for, huh? Genocide? Monsters roaming the earth?” he asks. “The fucking _apocalypse_? At what point does he lift a damn finger and help us poor bastards stuck down here? Explain that to me.” Castiel sighs.

“The Lord works-”

“If you say ‘in mysterious ways,’ so help me, I will kick your ass,” Dean says. Castiel throws up his hands defensively and turns his gaze away again. He’s heard that verse about a hundred times too many already.

“So, Bobby was right about the witnesses,” Dean mutters. “This is some kind of… sign… of the apocalypse?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Castiel says, nonchalant. “Big things afoot.”

“Do I want to know what kind of things?” Dean asks hesitantly.

“I sincerely doubt it,” Castiel admits. “But you need to know. The rising of the witnesses is one of the 66 seals.”

“Ok, I’m guessing not the Seaworld kind,” Dean jokes.

“Those seals are being broken by Lilith,” Castiel continues, completely ignoring Dean.

“So she did the spell?” he questions. “Brought back the witnesses?”

“Mm-hmm,” the angel confirms. “And not just here. 20 other hunters are dead.”

“Of course,” Dean mutters. “She picked victims that the hunters couldn’t save so that they would barrel right after us.”

“Lilith has a certain sense of…” Castiel pauses, “ _humor_.”

“Well, we put those spirits back to rest.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel sighs. “The seal was broken.”

“Why break the seal anyway?” Dean asks. There’s got to be an endgame, there always is. And sure, these ‘seals’ caused enough trouble by themselves but that would just be too easy. Castiel exhales and purses his lips.

“You think of the seals as locks on a door,” he explains.

“Okay, last one opens and…” Dean ventures.

“Lucifer walks free.”

_Holy shit._

Holy _fucking_ shit.

“Lucifer!?” he says, voice raising before he remembers that Sam is sleeping in the other room. “I thought Lucifer was just a story told at demon Sunday school!” he remembers a demon confessing her beliefs to him, in her most vulnerable state. “There’s no such thing,” he protests.

“Three days ago, you thought there was no such things as _me_ ,” Castiel says, like he’s amazed by the concept. “Why do you think we’re walking among you now for the first time in 2,000 years?”

“To stop Lucifer,” Dean answers, because there’s no other one.

“That’s why we arrived.” Dean snorts at the angel.

“Well, bang-up job so far. Stellar work with the witnesses,” he huffs. “That’s nice.”

Castiel is in his face, nose only a few scant inches away. He can barely make out the blue of his eyes, the lingering stubble of the vessel. There’s not a single smudge of _anything_ on him anywhere. With a shock Dean realizes that he can’t smell him. Where there should be sweat, stale breath, or mint, there’s just… _nothing_.

“We tried,” the angel hisses. “And there are other battles, other seals. Some we’ll win, some we’ll lose. This one, we lost. Our numbers are not _unlimited_ ,” he snaps. He pauses and closes his eyes for a moment. “Six of my brothers died in the field this week. You think the armies of Heaven should just follow you around? There’s a bigger picture here.”

The angel is even closer now, and if Dean wanted to he could count every single eyelash on both his eyes. There’s a feel of danger in the air, like lightning about to touch down. The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up and he realizes that the creature in front of him is _not_ human. This is a being far older and far more powerful. He feels like he’s caught in headlights but the car’s not getting any closer, just showing the deer that it’s _there_.

“You should show me some respect,” the angel demands. “I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in.”

There’s a snap in the air like wings beating and then he’s gone, leaving Dean alone in the kitchen. He groans and closes his eyes, recovering.

 

When he opens them again he’s back on the mattress on the floor.

Sunlight streams in from the windows, and he can see Sam fussing in the kitchen. He turns and looks at Dean, apparently concerned by the expression on his face.

“You all right?” he asks gently. “What’s wrong, Dean?”

“So…” Dean hesitates. “You got no problem believing in God… and Angels?”

“No, not really,” Sam admits.

“So, I guess that means you believe in the devil,” Dean guesses. Sam’s brows furrow in confusion.

“Why are you asking me all this?”

Dean groans tiredly and plants his face into his pillow, pulling the covers over his head so he can enjoy a few more minutes of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT STOP: I'm probably going to pick and choose scenes from the next couple episodes, maybe write an interlude, I'll figure it out.


	4. Monster Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even as Dean’s lining up he’s thinking about how weird of a concept it is: he is going to put a part of his body into hers, and they’re both going to enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back. Back again. Guess who's back. Tell a friend.
> 
> Ok so I don't really have an excuse other than that this chapter was really annoying to write because not much happens until the very end.
> 
> Ok I got some warnings for this chapter:  
> transphobic language  
> transphobia  
> transphobia used as a torture device  
> gore (a lil)  
> heterosexual sex

Dean finally tells Sam about a month later.

They’re in Pennsylvania, investigating some kind of vampire wannabe murderer during Oktoberfest. They stop at the local bar and Dean’s feeling pretty confident that he won’t be sleeping in the hotel room with Sam- partially because it’ll be 3,000 times easier to score with a dick and partially because he’s already had a couple beers and Jamie, the attractive, blonde waitress, seems very interested.

Normally, of course, Dean would never be able to get any action this way; straight, cisgender people can be a tough crowd. It’s about 12,000 times easier to score in a queer bar than in the normal kind if you’re transgender and it’s still hard. Dean learned that the not-fun way; never scoring at a normal bar and hardly at queer bars. So, when Dean notices that Sam is looking at him with his mouth gaping he’s not exactly surprised.

“Dude, what are you doing?” he asks, bewildered concern creeping into his voice. Dean can sense the bitch-face on the horizon.

“Flirting with the waitress, duh,” Dean mutters quietly.

“I get that, but what about- you know, down there?” Dean sighs at him. Sam has always had an aversion to saying _transgender_ or any of the actual terminology. Something about being concerned about political correctness, he thinks.

“Let’s just say some wrongs have been righted and leave it at that, alright?” Dean really doesn’t want to get into this conversation with his little brother at a bar while flirting with a waitress and pretending to be an FBI agent. But that’s exactly what’s going to happen.

“What!? No way, tell me what’s going on,” Sam demands, and Dean feels so guilty that he does, dragging his brother to a booth in the corner and explaining it all to him, from the beginning. Sam listens to him, wide-eyed and confused until the very end. Dean is reminded of when he told Sam he was transitioning, the blank surprise that occupied Sam’s face for the next week whenever he looked at Dean.

“So now it’s just, like, a, um-”

“Yes, I have a penis, Sam. And everything else, good, bad, and ugly,” he snorts. “I came back from the furnace without any of my old scars, right? No bullet wounds, knife cuts, none of the off-angled fingers from all the breaks. I mean, my hide is as smooth as a baby's bottom.” He’s almost done with his third beer now and feeling pleasantly loose-tongued. Sam’s mouth flaps open and closed for a few seconds until his jaw clenches. Dean puts his drink down because he’s got a bad feeling whatever Sam says next is gonna hit where it hurts.

“Why didn’t you tell me from the beginning, Dean?” Sam asks.

And there it is, the dreaded question, armed with puppy dog eyes and the look your grandma makes when you tell her you won’t eat the delicious blueberry pie she just made because it’s your favorite. Dean exhales long and hard through his nose, sips his beer, fiddles with the salt and pepper shakers.

“It was just- it was personal, and then it didn’t come up, and I just didn’t know when to tell you or if you wanted to know so I just… didn’t.”

“Dean, you know you can talk to me about this stuff, right? I’m here for you.”

“Dude, this is _exactly_ why I _don’t_ want to talk to you about this stuff!” Dean growls, not noticing how loud he is until he notices that Jamie is looking at them with concern. “I’m gonna be in the hotel room, okay? I just need a little time,” he says, and leaves Sam to his drink so he can go sulk in the impala and feel bad about himself.

 

Sam shows up a couple hours later, tipsier than Dean expected him to be. Dean himself had found a gas station in between the bar and the hotel and bought a six pack. He clutches his fifth beer in his left hand and helps Sam to the bed with the other.

“I just wanna be there fer’ you, Dean,” Sam sniffles, collapsing against the pillows. “I just wanna be the bes’ brother I can be, you know?”

“I know, Sammy,” Dean whispers, and leans down to give Sam a one armed hug. “You’re the best brother a guy could ask for.”

Dean falls into his own bed and they fall asleep after mumbling ‘goodnight’ to each other. It’s the first time in a month that Dean hasn’t had nightmares.

 

Dean is going to get laid, and he’s way more nervous than he should be. He’s on the way over the bar because Sam can deal with whatever sicko decided that strangling somebody next to a sarcophagus or dragging somebody out of a car and ripping them to pieces while dressed as a werewolf was normal way to murder somebody.

Earlier he and Sam had come back to the bar and Jamie mentioned getting off at midnight, which meant that Dean was now heading for the bar at 12:05 with a jump in his step.

He’s basically losing his virginity again so there’s that sense of nervousness, but there’s also the whole ‘not knowing what to do with a dick’ thing that’s freaking him out. _It can’t be that hard_ , he reasons with himself as he drives over, _it’s just in, out, and repeat, right_? That’s what it felt like when somebody else was doing it, plus a little hip action if he was lucky.

He gives himself a moment to check what he looks like in the side mirror, straightens his tie, bares his teeth to check for leftover food. When he steps out of the car he is greeted with the sound of a man screaming. Without a second thought, he bolts toward the sound.

When he rounds a corner he smashes into Jamie, red faced and panicked with pepper spray held threateningly. Over her shoulder he sees Dracula.

Not even a normal vampire, literally Dracula; long black cloak, slicked back hair, pale skin, and the most annoying accent possible.

 

Needless to say, Dean’s date night is ruined.

 

They slam into each other and Dean belatedly realizes that he is entirely unarmed, other than his own fists.

With blood roaring in his ears he knows that they’ll do.

“Son of a bitch!” he hisses as his knuckles smash into the Count’s cheekbone, slamming the other man away. He cracks his neck from side to side as the vampire straightens up again.

“You should not use such language in the presence of my bride,” the man says, an honest to God Transylvanian accent heavy in his voice.

Dean pauses.

“Uh, okay.”

And then they’re brawling again. Jamie runs when Dean tells her to, shoes clacking against the pavement as she flees. The vampire is furious as he claws at Dean.

“You have no choice in the matter, Mr. Harker,” he gurgles close to Dean’s ear, “Mina is mine!”

And then he tries to bite Dean.

Dean, panicked in the most primal sense, yanks the vampire’s head away from his neck and is disgusted when the flesh gives under his fingers, ripping away from the scalp with a disgusting _squelch_.

Dracula vaults over a nearby fence, Dean hot in pursuit until the vampire jumps onto a moped and revs it, leaving Dean in the dust. Panting, Dean looks down at his clenched hand with blood seeping out between fingers. When he opens them he finds his prize; a human ear.

 

Sam and Dean have _the talk_ with Jamie back at the bar. The lights are off but there’s still enough coming from the street lamps to see.

“So, you guys are like Mulder and Scully or something and The X-Files are real?” she asks, incredulous.

“No, that’s a TV show,” Dean answers, even though he knows she knows that. “This is real, though. I promise.”

“Oh,” is all she says.

Now that Sam and Dean know that the monster is a shapeshifter things become marginally easier. They reload all of the guns with silver bullets and switch out their bronze and steel knives for silver as well. That finished step one. Step two, of course, is finding the damn thing. From the ‘Mina’ thing they could guess that whoever it is had fixated on Jamie; they had to be somebody she knows.

“I don’t know,” Jamie mutters, throwing her hands in the air. “It’s Oktoberfest, I'm a bartender, there’s a lot of people.”

“There has to be _somebody_ ,” Dean presses. She purses her lips.

“I… I guess there _is_ Ed,” she says reluctantly.

And the goose chase begins. Sam heads out, leaving Dean to guard ‘Mina” at the bar. They sit silently for a few minutes before Jamie stands up and begins pacing, gnawing at her lips. Dean watches her but doesn’t say anything.

“So, monsters are real,” she murmurs, turning to him.

“Some of them, yeah,” he answers. He hopes she doesn’t ask which ones because Dean himself isn’t sure of all of them.

“And the shapeshifter, he can turn into different people,” she says, not questioning, just stating.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and then adds, “except this one’s turning to the _great monsters_ of screenland, which is a new one for me.” She takes a step closer, and Dean hopes that she’s going to sit down; all this movement makes him feel nervous. Instead, she just leans in a little closer.

“You’re not really FBI, are you?” she asks, squinting. _Just like Castiel_ , his brain supplies. Castiel, the angel who most recently threw him back in time to make him watch his mother write her own death sentence. He expects to feel rage at the thought, but there is only a deep, aching frustration.

“Not so much,” Dean gets out. She starts pacing again, more agitated now.

“So this is what you do?” she questions, sounding almost hysterical. “You and your partner just _tramp_ across the country on your own dime until you find some horrible nightmare to fight?” Jamie stops pacing to stare at him.

“Some people paint,” Dean mutters, vaguely remembering a painter from a long time ago, waiting for hounds to break down his door and drag him away. He wonders what happened to the man, if he managed to get away or met his much more likely demise. He’d still be torturing in Hell if he did.

“Wow,” Jamie murmurs.

“What?” Dean asks, startled into the present.

“That must _suck_!” She says. “I mean, you’re giving up your life for this terrible… I don’t know, _responsibility_.”

“Last few years, I started thinking that way,” he admits. “And it, uh, it started to sort of weigh on me, you know?” She nods and he continues. “Of course, that was before… a little while ago, I had this near death experience. _Very_ near.” Jamie, apparently interested, sits down next to him in the booth.

“And, well, when I came to… things were different. My life’s been different. I realized that I help people,” he remembers an angel telling him that _good things do happen_. “I don’t just help them, I save them,” when he notices Jamie leaning in a little closer he feels flustered. “I guess it’s- it’s awesome. It’s kind of like a gift, like a mission. Like a mission from God, you know?” She has a twinkle in her eye that Dean can’t quite interpret.

“So, does that make you some kind of monk or something?” she questions playfully. “You know, celibate?”

Dean realizes that she thinks he’s grandstanding, hoping that by appearing noble or courageous he’ll seduce her. In fact, he actually just poured his guts out to her. To be honest, Dean’s grateful that she’s not taking him seriously; this was a moment of weakness he won’t forget.

“Man, I hope not,” he says, smirking as he plays along.

And then they’re kissing. It’s the same as Dean remembers; their lips sliding together, pulling away for a breath and leaning back in. It feels nice, the warm press of her lips against his. His abdomen warms but he doesn’t feel any _hardening_ , which is a relief. Her hand reaches up and grasps his shoulder, almost perfectly aligned with the brand. Surprisingly, Dean feels _wrong_ , like he should be leaning away. His stomach feels heavy as she grasps tighter and he feels that same aching frustration he felt before when he thought of Castiel, throwing him into the past to watch his dad die and mother sign her contract to die for him. It felt-

The lights flicker on.

“Holy crap,” Lucy, Jamie’s friend, says, apologetic. “Oh my God, Jamie. Guys- I’m so sorry. I thought your guys were going out.” Jamie sighs and plasters on a tired smile.

“Lucy, it’s okay-”

“You know what?” Lucy interrupts, scampering behind the bar and pulling out a wine bottle. “I came to borrow this. I kind of got something back at my…” she trailed off, searching for words. “Anyway, you guys looked really busy so I’m just gonna-” she moves to leave.

“No, seriously Lucy,” Jamie pleads. “It’s been a crazy night. Stay for a drink.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, trying to stamp down the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Stay for a drink.”

They pop open the bottle and pour glasses. Once they’ve all tuckered in Jamie recounts the story of the vampire, minus the vampire bit. Lucy gasps and gapes at all the appropriate parts and Dean finds his mind drifting. The brand on his arm still aches dully, like a bad bruise. He rubs a hand over it to soothe it while he absentmindedly rolls the stem of his wineglass between his fingers.

“Oh, that sounds awful, Jamie,” Lucy gushes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jamie reassures her, a little smile adorning her pretty face. “He didn’t even touch me. Dean, he just blew right in and fought him off.”

“Well, I didn’t actually fly, but I’m sure that it seemed that way at the time,” he jokes. After the ‘Blast of the Past’ incident, Dean decided that he would leave flying to angels. Lucy smiles at him and picks up a napkin to blot at her lipstick gently. She leaves a dark stain on it. Dean feels queasy, but maybe it’s just from thinking about flying.

“It was really, _really_ something,” Jamie says, voice low. Dean looks at her. She’s pale but her cheeks are rosy and her eyes seem distant- and not in the mysterious and sexy way.

“Jamie?”

“So, Dean, are you like a black belt or what?” Lucy teases, a keen edge to her voice. He looks at his glass and sees two, and then three, fragmenting and warping. Lucy laughs, a high, nasal thing. “Well, I guess they train you to fight at the academy or whatever.” Dean tries to focus on her across the table from him, swings an arm at her. She jerks back but that only means he clips her jaw instead of the side of her head. It _gives_ under the force and dislodges.

“Dean, what are you doing!?” Jamie shrieks, half slurred. She grasps the table clumsily, hand sliding out to steady herself but she slips and falls against the seat.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Dean hisses. “You slimy fuck!” he stumbles out of his seat as Lucy pops her jaw back into place, smirks at him. He kicks her, as hard as he can, but he can’t get any force behind it and only bounces his foot against her shin.

“Oh, fucking- what did you put in our drinks?!” he yells, grabbing the wine bottle from the table. Lucy smiles, lips peeling to reveal her pearly teeth. Dean straightens and tries not to think about how his head is buzzing and the room is tilting around him. He smashes the bottle against the edge of the table, turning it into a formidable weapon, but Lucy doesn’t seem particularly concerned.

“That’s alright, I’ll skin you myself,” he says, and then collapses to the floor.

 

_Dean remembers Hell. It was before he gave in, but a long time since he had last seen daylight, when Alistair finally mentioned it._

_”I wonder what Johnny boy thinks about you,” Alistair says, nonchalant. He has his back to Dean as he fiddles with his cart. He is reminded of being in the dentist’s office when they reach back to grab one of those little metal hooks. Dean always hated those. It’s early in the day and Dean is already strapped to the rack. There are a few cuts down his torso, deep gouges dotting the scars on his chest, from the surgery. Alistair loved to torment them, remind Dean of their existence._

_“He always thought this was a phase, you know,” Alistair turns back. He has a bottle in his hand, a little glass thing halfway full of a pale, brown liquid. It is testosterone, something Dean knows well. When he was topside he gave himself a shot of it once a week. Alistair holds it gingerly. “You went through a lot of them. Phases.” Alistair remarks. “The scared little girl, the cold bitch, the slut, the butch lesbian, and now-” Alistair brings the bottle up to his eye and looks at Dean through the liquid. His eye is magnified. “And now the wannabe boy.”_

_Dean tenses, can’t help himself. He gasps as a little trickles of blood dart down his torso and pool in his naval. Alistair laughs delightedly._

_“Oh, how that bothers you! What would your daddy think of you now, hmmm?” Alistair puts the bottle back on his cart and leans in closer. His breath is a mix of rotting flesh and apple pie. His mom smelled like apple pie. Dean turns his head away._

_“That’s why he left, you know, the first time. You left your things in the bathroom and when Johnny boy was in there he realized that he had forgotten his toothpaste at the last hotel. That was okay, though, because guess what?” Alistair’s voice is shrill with glee. “You had toothpaste too, and your bag was right there! But he didn’t just find toothpaste, no, no, no! He found this too! So he left you, Dean-o. He left you!” Alistair cackles. “He always played along, corrected himself when he called you Deanna, or daughter, but that was all he was doing- playing along! But when he found this-” Alistair shoves the bottle back in Dean’s face. He can see little bubbles in it. “When he found this he was disgusted, Dean.” Alistair clicked his tongue in disappointment. “You shouldn’t have tried to be a boy, Dean-o. I mean, sure, your dad wanted a son, but not a faker. He wanted a real man, like your brother. You should’ve stayed Deanna.”_

_“I didn’t do it for him,” Dean protests. “It was for me, for me, you bastard!”_

_“Bastard?” Alistair says and Dean sees a twinkle in his eye, like a little kid that’s just convinced their mom to buy them candy. “Well, at least I’m not a bitch.”_

_He crushes the bottle over Dean’s chest and the testosterone burns him, sizzles as it strikes flesh, and Dean can feel it seeping into his veins, into his heart, pumping into his body until everything is pain, boiling, he’s crying, screaming, please, forgive me, I wasn’t enough, please-_

 

Dean wakes up panting and in lederhosen, strapped to an upright table. For a moment he thinks he’s still in Hell and Alistair is in a strange mood, but then he spots Dracula.

“She is beautiful, no?” he remarks in a heavy Transylvanian accent toward a framed picture. It’s Lucy- no, it just looks like her, but it’s damn close to her. The man- or rather, shapeshifter- tells him of how his bride has been reborn in Lucy.

“You know, I really can’t get over what a pumpkin-pie-eyed crazy fuck you are. I mean, you know you’re not Dracula, right? Or a mummy.”

Dracula/Mummy/Werewolf/Lucy punches him in the face.

“I am all monsters!” the shapeshifter says. Dean sneers.

“Life ain’t a movie, you sorry sack of-”

Dracula/Mummy/Werewolf/Lucy punches him in the face again.

“Aah,” Dean manages, working his jaw back and forth.

“Life is _small_. Meagre. Messy. Movies? They are grand, simple, elegant- I have chosen elegant.

“Elegant?” Dean scoffs. “Okay, try telling Marissa, or Rick, or anybody else that you’re elegant.”

“It is a _monster_ movie," the Count hisses. 

“You do know what happens at the end of _every_ monster movie, right?” Dean says Dracula grins, his fangs protruding.

“Ah, but this movie is _mine_ , you see? The monster wins, the monster gets the girl And the hero? Well, he’s going to be electrocuted, the poor thing. And tonight, you, Jonathan Harker, will be _my_ hero.” Dracula saunters over to the wall and for the first time Dean notices a large lever. Dracula puts his hand on it.

“Whoa- wh- wait, w-w-wait a-” Dean chuckles, wiggling in his bonds. Dracula only grins hugely.

Ding!

Dracula groans at the sound, a doorbell.

“Please, excuse me,” he says and leaves with a swish of his cape.

Dean continues to struggle in the straps but they won’t even budge an inch.

_The straps should always have some wiggle room, Dean. That lets your client wiggle a little, makes them feel in control. But then you get to take even that little bit away from them. Delightful, isn’t it?_

It’s a half buried memory. Alistair, the first day after he got off the rack and his former torturer was teaching him a few tricks of the trade.

Sam, of all people, walks in. He’s harried and startled.

“Oh, thank God!” Dean gasps. “Just in the nick of time. That guy was about to Frankenstein me.” Sam smiles as he’s untying him. Dean jumps down and feels his stocking pulling at his leg hair.

“Hey there, Hansel,” Sam jokes. Dean feels his ears redden.

“Shut up!”

Sam _kicks a hole_ through the door and it falls off of its hinges.

“I guess it was a low budget movie, huh?” Dean muttered.

“Let’s go,” Sam sighs.

 

Jamie turns out to be even more badass than Dean thought and shoots Dracula from behind after Sam gets thrown against a wall. Luckily, Sam had loaded the gun with silver bullets. Dracula dies appropriately- with a farewell to his love and last words that Dean is jealous of.

 

Sam leaves Dean with Jamie, and at first he thinks that she’ll be much too nervous for them to get beyond walking home together. So he’s surprised when she invites him inside her apartment. There’s a sort of determination in her step that makes Dean think that he’s a rebound, of sorts. Except from a traumatic experience with Dracula instead of a past boyfriend.

Dean finds that he doesn’t mind.

The moment they’re inside her apartment Jamie has him pinned against a wall, clever fingers tugging at his jacket until it crumples to the floor, and then the top buttons of his shirt. Dean responds eagerly, pulling at her clothes until he’s in nothing but his boxers and his mostly-unbuttoned dress shirt and she’s in her bra and panties.

They proceed to the bedroom.

Jamie moves to pull down his boxers but Dean finds himself stopping her.

“What is it?” she asks. Dean clears his throat.

“It’s just- uh. It’s been awhile, so I was hoping I could-” he hooks a finger into her panties and she giggles.

“Well, if you’re really so nervous, I suppose I don’t mind,” she says in a tone that implies she doesn’t mind at all. This, at least, is something that Dean is not only familiar with, but _great_ at. Not 5 minutes later Jamie is a quivering, moaning mess beneath him. Dean wipes his mouth on the back of his arm before leaning up to lave his tongue on her neck. She squirms, ticklish.

“Alright big boy, it’s your turn,” she says and leans over to her bedside table and pulls a condom out of a drawer. Dean’s heart gives a little jump but he is quick to yank at his boxers. His dick, which has been hard almost to the point of painful for the last few minutes, springs free. _Well, I guess I’m a grower_ , Dean thinks detachedly, _at least Cas didn’t skimp out on that_.

Jamie slips a condom onto him and she’s already prepared from his earlier ministrations so he has to put himself in her. Even as Dean’s lining up he’s thinking about how weird of a concept it is: he is going to put a part of his body into hers, and they’re both going to enjoy it.

Dean groans at the sensation as he slides in, so strange and foreign to him. Jamie whines and grabs at his shoulders. A moment later, it’s like instincts are kicking in, and he starts moving.

It’s over pretty fast, but at least he doesn’t feel self-conscious after taking care of Jamie first. It’s about the same sensation that he would have gotten with vagina but it also feels a little like peeing _really_ hard. Which is weird, but also very startling. Jamie sighs when he pulls out and he’s quick to pull the condom off and tie it before going to the bathroom to throw it out.

When he gets back Jamie pulls him against her and they sleep in the nude. It feels nice, but Dean has some trouble getting comfortable with his dick flopping around everywhere. Eventually, though, he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

 

Jamie and Dean have Poptarts for breakfast and she kisses him goodbye when he leaves. It’s bittersweet but he supposes that’s to be expected from his first one night stand. At least it wasn’t awkward.

“So,” Sam says when they’re in the car. “How’d it go?”

“What?” Dean asks, feigning ignorance.

“You know what, jerk. How was the sex?”

“Well, she seemed to like it, so that’s good.”

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam whines. “Were you okay with it?” Dean sighs and keeps his eyes on the road.

“Yeah, it was good, Sammy. I guess Castiel was feeling generous when he was making my-”

“Ew, Dean, gross! I don’t need to know that!”

Dean laughs and cranks up the music until he can’t hear his bratty little brother anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking about the next chapter being an interlude from Castiel's POV to show how he missed the whole 'my charge is transgender' thing. Thoughts? Share them in them comments.


End file.
